


The Ineffable Advent Calendar

by ineffable_andouilles



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 11,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffable_andouilles/pseuds/ineffable_andouilles
Summary: Oops?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. 01 - Mayan Tehuantepec - 1396

Aziraphale closed his hands around his steaming ceramic cup and let out a relaxed sigh: he was comfortably lounging at a shadowy terrace, a cool breeze from the nearby sea ruffling his pale hair, and he was about to enjoy his first cup of _xocolatl_ of the evening while the local people seemed to assemble in a rather noisy gathering towards the sacred part of the city. It really was a splendid idea to miracle off to the Yucatan peninsula at this time of the year, he mused, waiting for the hot spicy beverage to cool down a bit. The 14th century had been a bloody nightmare back in Europe, and it hadn’t taken much convincing from Crowley to persuade the angel to foll— ahem, to try and thwart him on another continent.

Speaking of Crowley… Aziraphale opened a midly concerned eye, wondering where the demon could possibly be (not that he was worried, of course; he simply felt it was best to know where his nemesis was at all times. For thwarting reasons). Then he promptly inhaled half the contents of his cup through his nose when he finally understood why the people were so enthusiastic a few streets away: they had apparently decided that Crowley had to be a snake god of some sort, and insisted on adoring him at the temple following the sacred customs, which seemed to involve several songs, a lot of offerings (luckily, only fruits and fishes were hurt in this scenario), and a rather alarmed Crowley, who looked exactly like someone who had just invented crowd-surfing against his will.

An almost completely _naked_ Crowley, noted Aziraphale, who had definitely not forgotten his xocolatl and was absolutely not staring at his dem— fri— _co-entity_ as the crowd hauled him to the nearest temple. Crowley looked indeed quite striking in the golden light of the evening, his fiery red hair catching the last rays of sunshine while the gold bracelets adorning his neck, arms and ankles glistened blindingly. He seemed quite uneasy though, slitted amber eyes scanning the crowd until they met Azirapahle’s and relaxed slightly. _Help. Me._, Crowley mouthed a bit desperately, _I think they want me to talk _(vague gesture) _or dance _(even wilder gesture) _or worse—_ but the rest was lost in the festive noise and Aziraphale just smiled, waved, sat back and enjoyed the view. Crowley would definitely pout for a few days afterward, but it was quite worth it, he decided.


	2. 02 - Somewhere in the southern hemisphere - A long time ago

Aziraphale was in a very poor mood, and had been for the last few months (even if months had not technically been invented yet).

First, Crowley had vanished God knew where; then a far too smiley Gabriel had summoned him for a new mission, which apparently involved demonic activities on the other side of the bloody world, and now he was ankle-deep in hot red sand, his immaculate robe only a distant memory under layers and layers of this blasted iron dust that kept getting _everywhere_. Aziraphale had attempted to miracle it away for a while, but he’d given up a few hours earlier, accepting defeat when he saw it.

He’d failed to encounter anyone on this godforsaken island yet, and he huffed and puffed his way up the highest hill of the area to try and see where he was supposed to go next for the actual demonic thwarting.

What he hadn’t expected was to meet said demon right on the top of the very hill he just climbed, and for the demon to be _Crowley_.

— You vile serpent! he managed to splutter indignantly, chest heaving and his hands on his knees. The demon, of course, was looking impossibly cool and smug in his dark outfit, which flowed in the wind along with his curly auburn hair. Aziraphale suspected he'd been posing for quite some time now.

— Aziraphale, said Crowley amiably, how nice to see you too.

— What exactly are you doing there? Aziraphale hissed at him once he’d regained his composure. I’m supposed to be smiting whatever demonic presence they’d send here from Below, it wasn’t supposed to be _you_… !

— Yesss, wasn’t too happy about it either at first but look at thisss, grinned Crowley, arms open at the nightmarish landscape that rolled off endlessly around them. "It was quite gloomy down there when I arrived three months ago, so I took the liberty to improve things a bit-"

— What do you mean, ‘gloomy’ and ‘improve’, rasped Aziraphale, a bit concerned by the manical look in Crowley’s eyes.

— Welll, God had apparently forgotten ‘bout this part of the world when She decided She was done and it was time to rest, so I kind of took over from here and I got a bit… creative with the wildlife, ‘s all. Crowley’s grin was also manical now.

— Creative? In what sens-AARGH! howled Aziraphale, unceremoniously clutching at Crowley’s shoulder as a spider the size of Gabriel’s ego almost stomped his right foot. I… I think I see what you mean, he said feebly, still gripping Crowley’s upper arm, while the creature gallopped away at the speed of a small horse with all the might of its eight very impressive legs. Crowley didn’t seem to mind the clutching.

— I’m sure you’ll get used to it, he answered breezily. Have you met koalas yet? Look like adorable little bears, explode when it gets too hot? Whatever, he added hastily after noticing the angel was paling under the red dust that covered most of his face, I wanted to call this land Aziraphalia, but I’ve been informed it won’t be inhabited for a few millenia yet, so the point of naming it is sort of moot for now… anyway, at least the local fauna will have time to evolve until then, that should make for a few interesting surprises by the time humans manage to survive long enough here!

Aziraphale glowered at him from beneath Crowley’s shoulder. It wasn’t very effective.

— Oh, don’t be such a killjoy, Crowley tsskd far too smugly. Look, it’s not all that bad, I’ve also miracled some lovely beaches and a giant coral reef that will be amazing to dive around, he said in a relatively contrite tone, hoping Aziraphale would not be too angry with him.

Said beaches and reefs _might_ happen to host a whole array of various deadly species but hey, Aziraphale didn’t have to know _right away_.


	3. 03 - The Bermuda Triangle – 1950s

To say that Crowley was a bit stressed out was kind of an understatement. Everything had started off splendidly, though: he’d been busy right after the war had ended in 1945, messing with spies and politicians and infiltrated agents, and generally creating a wonderfully instable political climate which was nicely progressing into a full-blown arms race. People were already calling it the Cold War, and Crowley couldn’t _ wait _ to see what’d happen next. 

As Crowley had proudly presented it to his dubious colleagues Below, the cherry on top of this all had been his little fidling with the strategical maritime area just south of the Bermuda islands, wich he’d (a bit lamely, but inspiration refused to strike) named « the Bermuda triangle » ("Like the posh shorts?", Hastur had snickered, while Beelzebub sneered with a bored face. They’d become suddenly more interested when Crowley had pointed out that the area had not only been specifically designed to wreck ships and airplanes, which was wonderful news regarding the fueling of the current paranoia between the biggest world powers, but it also meant that Hell was going to become _ really _crowded in the next decade, give or take a few years of mysterious military wreckages).

The problem was, Crowley muttered frantically as he miracled himself away there, zero (0) soul had been registered Below from the Bermuda triangle in the last few years of its existence. Not a single one. Beelzebub was beginning to grow a teensy little bit unhappy and had made it clear to Crowley, who had agreed to check the area promptly least he faced immediate discorporation. How was it even _ possible _? The question spinned in his mind as he grew increasingly mystified, until… 

_ Oh _. 

Well, that explained _ a lot _.

Right there, in the middle of the ocean, comfortably installed on a plush stormy cloud, was Aziraphale. Crowley had not seen him since the miraculous events of the London Blitz, and he had to remind himself to look stern and angry because the angel was looking quite… well, angelic (Crowley was now intimately convinced his inspiration had also sunk at the bottom of the sea at this point). He must not have managed to put on a demonic face though, because Aziraphale lit up as soon as he noticed him.

"Crowley, my dear! How wonderful to see you there". The angel patted the cloud beside him. "Fancy a seat? The view is quite splendid from up here". Crowley sat, a bit dumbstruck. "What exactly are you doing in here" he croaked, slightly bemused. How was it his life.

"Oh, nothing very exciting", the angel replied, looking slightly guilty. "It’s just… I noticed in the newspapers that an awful lot of accidents seemed to happen in the area and, well… Let’s say I’ve been trying to arrange things a bit", he added, fidgeting in his cloudy seat.

"And how, exactly, have you been… arranging things ?" Crowley asked, cautiously.

"Well… officially, I’m not really supposed to intervene", admitted Aziraphale, "Gabriel was very clear about that, something to do with not meddling with international human politics which could benefit both celestial sides… I’m not sure I understand what he meant by that. Anyway, his main concern was that nobody was supposed to make it outside this area, so I took the liberty to interpret that as I liked it". As he spoked, he suddenly streched out and pointed at a boat that was clearly beginning to sink right under their cloud. Aziraphale made a vague gesture with his hands and the boat disappeared in a puff of smoke and a slight smell of motor oil. "There you go! Now everybody’s safe and sound, and amnesic, on a remote atoll in the middle of the Pacific". By the look of it, thought Crowley hysterically, his angel had contributed to the repopulation of several Samoan archipelagos by now, which was of course wonderful – and a bit confusing - news for the local demographics.

"Aziraphale, you’re absolutely bonkers", Crowley couldn’t help but smile behind his dark lenses. "Need a hand with that ?" he added quickly, decidedly not blushing as the angel gave him a blinding grin. Hell was going to rip him apart for this, but it was worth it.


	4. 04 - East Coast of Ecuador - 19th century

To say that Aziraphale was relieved to put — at last — foot on land was kind of an understatement. Even though the idea of embarking upon a scientific vessel bound to explore half of the oceans had been tempting at the time (Crowley was busy sleeping — or rather pouting, Aziraphale thought with a sigh, and, weird as it may sound, he himself was beginning to grow quite tired of the gavotte, so he’d proposed his services as a chaplain on the first ship he’d encountered), Aziraphale had unfortunately discovered quite soon that divine entities were not, in fact, immune to sea-sickness. Also, the food onboard was positively _repulsive_, and he’d already been reduced to miracle away weevils (plural) in his hardtack. 

So when the enthusiastic scientist onboard the Beagle, Mr. Charles Darwin, had suggested he came with him and his assistants to map the island and collect a few (dozens of) specimens, Azirapahle had, so to speak, jumped at the chance to get the feeling back in his legs.

He’d taken a liking to this young Darwin fellow, who had a few interesting theories about the evolution of species Aziraphale _ supposed _ were a bit heretical, but the angel had to admit they made quite a lot of sense, actually. That’s partially why he was subrepticously snapping his fingers as they progressed through the remote archipel, trying to hasten the scientific progress of his excitable friend. And partially because he didn’t want to be late back to the shore, where the ship’s cook had promised them an actual dinner with freshly prepared food and drinks, for a change.

*snap*

— Would you look at these magnificent fregate birds-

*snap*

— Oh, I have to collect that _fantastic_ stag beetle-

*snap*

— What a magnificent specimen of red-bellied snake, the first one I see under these latitudes!

*sn…*

Wait, what ?

Suddenly finding himself extremely suspicious, Aziraphale moved into action just in time to avoid the disaster waiting to happen as Darwin was about to capture the « snake » with his bare hands. 

« Charles, my dear fellow », Aziraphale said quickly, « I really wouldn’t do that if I were you ». 

« Why the heavens not ? » asked the very confused naturalist, who was more used to getting enabled by his eager assistant than not.

He was soon to understand why though, as the snake opened a bright yellow eye and hissed contemptuously at the mention of « heavens ». Darwin was so close that he almost got an armful of demon when a very displeased Crowley changed back into his human form, shooting a venomous look at everyone before disappearing in a puff of sulphuric smoke. 

Aziraphale sighed with a heavy heart. Trust his luck to meet a contrary Crowley on the bloody Galapagos islands, in the middle of the entire Pacific ocean!

But as much as he wished to feel sorry for himself, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Darwin was still frozen in shock, white as a sheet and looking as if he’d just seen the Devil — which was technically almost true, Aziraphale reflected. With a last snap of his fingers, he miracled away what had just happened and turned to a very confused Darwin. « Charles, my friend! Would you just _ look _ at these weird-looking finches, don’t you think they’re positively fascinating? » 


	5. 05 - A farm somewhere in New York state - 1969

*Splatch*

*Splatch splatch*

*SPLATCH*

“Oh for HEAVEN’S sake!” Aziraphale swore loudly, throwing his hands in the general direction of the sky. “I’m so frightfully sorry, please forgive me”, he added quickly, remembering a bit late Who he was talking to so lightly.

The situation he was currently in was quite dire indeed: as far as his (multiple) eyes could see, he was surrounded by mud, several tons of waste, more mud, empty paper cups, even more mud, and what looked — more than slightly worryingly — like thousands of dead bodies.

Aziraphale started a bit when one of said dead bodies groaned and tried to sit up, which was not an easy feast given the muddy environnement it was lying on (or rather, into).

— Wassup, man, the (not dead, apparently) fellow slurred at him.

— I beg your pardon?

— Ya clean up nice, man, the young person carried on, gesturing vaguely at Aziraphale’s once immaculate outfit, which sadly wasn’t immaculate anymore. He’d have to spend _thousands_ at the dry-cleaner, Aziraphale moaned inwardly, given that Gabriel had expressly forbidden any more “frivolous” miracle a long time ago.

— Why, thank you, my young chap, Aziraphale couldn’t help but beam. “Could you by any chance indicate me the nearest logistics area, I need to talk to—” but the other man had gone back to sleep, snoring happily on the wet ground.

Aziraphale sighed, and his shoes squeaked miserably in the mud as he tried to peel them off the ground, which was of course the exact moment he heard other people approaching.

“Aziraphale, there you are!” Crowley grinned at him from afar, saying his goodbyes to someone who looked _a lot_ like Jimmy Hendrix. He was looking more devilish than ever, his impeccable black suit and shoes suspiciously void of any fleck of mud as he slithered near the angel. His only concession to the theme of the event was a “flower power” pin badge that glistened on his breast pocket. It was rather fetching, Aziraphale thought idly.

“Crowley, my dear. Would you care explaining all this?” Aziraphale tried to sound stern but he was overwhelmingly relieved to see the — _his_ — demon alive and well, despite giving him Holy Water a few years earlier, back in London on a miserable rainy night. Moreover, despite the persistent stench of mud and various piles of waste he’d rather not think about, there was a weirdly… peaceful and loving aura about the whole thing, he realized, a bit puzzled.

“Oh, didn’t do much, really”, Crowley answered with a smirk. “I just whispered some ideas to a few music producers, helped spread the rumours and weed, and the power of love slash music did the rest. Welcome to the Woodstock Festival, land of the hippie revolution” he gestured dramatically, snaking an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, “or, as they like to say now: Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll, baby” he whispered in the angel’s left ear, lips almost touching the skin.

Aziraphale turned a vivid shade of crimson and coughed awkwardly. “Yes, well, you could at least have told me to put on Wellingtons. And you are definitely paying for the dry-cleaner back home”.

Crowley winked at him.


	6. 06 - Italy - 1510

Crowley sometimes wondered if God was not only playing dice with the Universe in general, but with him and Aziraphale in particular.

They’d been in Italy at the same time without actually planning it, the angel sent there as a celestial ambassador in Florence to meet with the influential Machiavelli (“I’d sssworn he was on our sside”, had commented Crowley), the demon acting as an envoy from Below to ensure a complete cooperation from the current Pope (“Oh. I  _ thought _ this one was ours”, had said Aziraphale, but without much conviction).

A few days later, Aziraphale was so lost in the absurd complexities of the Florentine political life that he was beginning to feel a persistent headache interfering with his aureola. Crowley, on the other hand, had encountered absolutely no difficulties strutting around in the Vatican, which had almost entirely fallen to the dark side at this point; but after a week or so of meeting people who were actually more devious than most of his colleagues Below, the mere sight of a cardinal’s hat was enough to give him murder fantasies.

That’s why he’d suggested they eloped to Venice, which was rather nice at this time of the year. Also, they had canals and palaces and a  _ magnificent  _ carnival, he’d mentioned to Aziraphale, hoping it would be enough to convince the angel to follow him. This had worked much better than anticipated, and Crowley had had to accompany the angel in an actual shopping spree to find themselves “suitable costumes, dear” for the occasion (he gave silent thanks to his good friend Leonardo, who’d tipped him with several exquisite taylor addresses in Florence).

The result was worth it, though, he acknowledged as they made their way into the busy ballroom of one of Venice’s most attended  _ palazzi _ . Aziraphale was beaming in a frilly cream dress covered in sheer lace and shiny sequins, white gloves covering his forearms and stopping just above the crease of his elbows. His right hand held a feathered white mask (which did nothing to hide the angel’s blazing smile, Crowley noticed helplessly), and his left arm was firmly locked with Crowley’s right, much to the demon’s despair. He himself was dressed much more sensibly in a black velvet doublet and breeches with red lining, amber eyes hidden behind a dark satin domino mask, but he slightly regretted his choice of clothing material as it was beginning to get seriously hot in the ballroom. This had nothing to do with the celestial entity currently giggling excitedly at his side, of course.

He somehow managed to hold himself together for most of the evening, even though he’d had no choice but to accept to take part in an elaborate group dance that had left him at even closer quarters to Aziraphale.  _ Multiple _ times.

As they were regaining their breath on the beautiful loggia that circled the room, they soon agreed that it was enough excitement and people for one night. Crowley gazed outside and grinned suddenly as he spotted the unguarded sleek boats parked outside the palace, bumping softly into each other in the water.

“Fancy a gondola ride, _signora_?” he asked in an outrageously fake Venetian accent. Aziraphale didn’t have to be told twice, and they escaped as silently as they managed, muffling their (more than slightly drunk) laughter as Crowley miracled one of the dark boats free from its mooring cables.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?”

“Could you be a dear and row? I can’t  _ possibly _ risk ripping the lace on my gown and soiling my gloves.”

Crowley sighed and picked up the paddle.


	7. 07 - Ancient Greece - Around 50 AD

Crowley let out a frustrated sigh and took a long swig from the sour grapejuice pouch he’d persuaded some fishermen to give him when he’d first set foot in Thessaloniki.

He’d tried _everything_ to make himself noticeable from Above: fire-haired nymph “forgetting” her skimpy clothing on the river banks, Adonis-lookalike shepherd sprawled languidly among his flock, dryad running around in the forest, you name it. The sky remained unbearably sunny, blue, and notably void of any divine manifestation, even though he’d tried to make his presence known to Zeus — or any other Olympian god, at this point — for literal days now. (_Not even a satyr in sight_, he sighed to himself. _Could have done with a little drinking and debauchery right now_).

It was a matter of urgency, though; with the recent events in Palestine and the steady rise of monotheism all around the globe, Hell had jumped on the opportunity to secure as many pagan souls as possible while there was still time, starting with whatever was going on in the Greco-Roman pantheon. Crowley had volunteered to negociate on Hell’s behalf, thinking Greece would be rather nice at this time of the year, but he’d soon become quite disillusioned when he’d failed — repeatedly — to get himself noticed.

“Humans always complain that Zeus is giving them too much attention”, he fumed. “Why the Heavens am I the only one this horny guy _doesn’t_ notice?!”

Just as Crowley was about to try a new disguise (Zeus liked swans, apparently. What about transforming into a duck of some sort? A _sexy_ duck, of course, Crowley reminded himself with a growing sense of what-exactly-am-I-doing-here), billowing clouds assembled, tore apart and let something out while a thunderstorm brew around them. The thing in question soon appeared to be much larger than expected, and, as Crowley (currently crouching behind a tree and beginning to get rather wet) squinted between two flashes of blinding lightning, he finally identified it as the largest eagle he’d ever seen, which seemed to be carrying a white fluffy thing (a _sheep_?) on its back.

Oh, said Crowley, his heart sinking a bit. Not a sheep. Aziraphale.

It was indeed the angel, looking rather flustered and far too pleased with himself as he hopped on the ground and patted the eagle’s feathers appreciatively.

“Well, I believe this is a perfect deal we have here, O father of the gods”, the angel said with a smile, “I think my hierarchy will be very pleased to take over from you and your, erm, weird family. We’ll keep you updated with the legal stuff regarding the conversion of your mortal believers to our side, of course.”

As the angel and the eagle — Zeus — exchanged a few more words with an altogether far too amicable demeanor, Crowley rolled his eyes, draped himself in his chiton with as much dignity he could muster and miracled away to his next stop on the Norwegian coast. At least they knew how to pay their respects to serpentine entities up there.


	8. 08 - London - Around 2010

“Are you _ssure_ you want to pack all of these…?”, Crowley gestured at the piles of leather-backed books Aziraphale was busy wrapping in several layers of silk paper. A gigantic trunk was open on the floor, already filled with carefully wrapped parcels but, by the look of it, the angel was not quite finished.

“Of course, dear”, the angel answered absentmindedly. “My contact in Timbuktu is willing to show me his family’s wonderfully-preserved 12th century manuscripts, it’s only justice I repay them with something of equivalent value”. He stopped to put three more padded books into the trunk. “Here, lend me a hand with the bubble wrapping, would you?” he added, almost smothering Crowley with a giant sheet of protective wrapping and a pair of scissors.

“Mphhhh”, sputtered the demon, wrestling with the bubble wrap. “Alright, but this is the last one, angel. You and I know very well _ who _ will be carrying the luggages”, he glowered when said angel tried to puppy-eye him, holding another book to his chest.

At this rate, they were going to be really late to the airport, the demon thought with resignation, slicing through the seemingly infinite roll of thick plastic wrapping and trying to forget the fact he was the one who'd invented airplane food. This flight to the middle of Africa was going to be a long one, but at least they'd have each other's company to pass the time.

In the end, they made it to Heathrow with three alarmingly plump suitcases, two remarkably fake passports and 25 minutes left to go through all the security controls.

“I warned you we needed better IDs if we’re not going to miracle away there”, Crowley hissed as the border control officer eyed their 19th century passports with a more than suspicious frown.

“And I already told you, I don’t want Gabriel tracking us, this is an_ unauthorized_ trip”, Aziraphale hissed back. “Oh, bother”, he sighed a few seconds later, quickly snapping his fingers as the border officer was about to surreptitiously press the red button under her desk. She stopped mid-air, smiled blankly and stamped their passports without batting an eye at them.

“Phew”, exhaled Aziraphale as they finally made it to the boarding gate, “that was a close call”

“Well,  _ someone _ up there is going to be busy checking the passenger lists of all the flights that took off from Europe’s busiest airport today”, Crowley snickered.

“Remind me whose identity you’re travelling under these days?”

“Abraham Lincoln. You?”

“Oscar Wilde”

They were still laughing when their plane landed in Mali several hours later.


	9. 09 - Versailles - 1677

If someone had told Crowley a few weeks earlier that he’d be part of the French royal court along with the celestial entity known as Aziraphale, the demon would, strangely enough, have believed it.  His life had taken a far too unexpected turn since his Arrangement with the angel to consider any potential event as too implausible now.

Admittedly, he wasn’t supposed to be there: as they’d met for a quick debriefing earlier in the week, Aziraphale had lost their usual coin flip and had departed to Versailles for a quick blessing/temptation, leaving the demon to his own devices in London. But the thought of the angel in a ridiculous wig — on top of one of the outrageous outfits the Froggies were known for — was too tempting to dismiss, and Crowley had followed suit on a whim, knowing full well Beelzebub wouldn’t bat an eye at him “professionally” visiting the notoriously debauched royal Court on the other side of the Channel.

This had backfired rather quickly when Crowley had discovered three things immediately upon his arrival at the royal palace: the angel didn’t look ridiculous at all but positively  _ ravishing _ as “Monsieur Aziraphale”, he’d apparently become the most prized attraction at the Court, and there was a mandatory horse ride scheduled this very afternoon.

Crowley groaned internally. He hated horses.

He tried to forget the fact he was surrounded by whinnying beasts twice his size and ten times the weight of his human body as he entered the royal stables to discreetingly borrow a not-to-ferocious-looking ride.

Of course, Aziraphale was already there, having his white mare saddled for him by a flurry of obsequious stable boys who fell over backwards in the hopes of earning themselves a hefty tip.

“You’ve already settled in, as I can see”, Crowley said in what he hoped was a nonchalant voice.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped with a grin. “How _wonderful_ is it that you could finally come. I didn’t know you could ride”, he added with a perplexed frown.

“Actually, I don’t”, Crowley admitted stiffly.

“Oh, but you don’t have to, my dear”, the angel explained. “This is more of a parade than an actual riding session, so you can walk beside my horse. It’s rather common for the ladies of the Court to do so with their suitors”. 

There was an awkward silence as they both registered Aziraphale’s last sentence, but in the end this proved to be the best option for everyone involved: in the flurry of horses, nobles and servants running everywhere, nobody noticed Crowley actually spent the entire promenade talking to — and maybe sometimes gazing at — Aziraphale, who was beaming even more than usual on his white horse.

Well, nobody, except for the king’s brother and his intimate “friend” le Chevalier de Lorraine, who waved back at them while exchanging a knowing smile.


	10. 10 - Soho - 2019

Crowley parked the Bentley outside Aziraphale’s bookshop and slinked through the main door, not even registering the neat little “Closed” sign that dangled on said door.

“Angel, you won’t believe what I heard about Hasst—” he began to say, then promptly stopped dead in his tracks, temporarily blinded despite his sunglasses. 

The whole bookshop was literally glowing from hundreds of festive decorations, which covered every square inch of the room. Even the angel’s most prized first-editions had their own little tinsel garlands neatly draped over the fragile leather, with blinking fairy lights on top of it, of course.

Crowley was a bit taken aback, but this was only the beginning.

“Crowley, my dear, is that you?” Aziraphale called from afar. “Ah yes, there you are!” the angel continued as he emerged from the back room with even more tinsel and what looked suspiciously like Christmas jumpers in his hands.

“Be a dear and put this on”, he said, throwing one of the evidently very vintage jumpers at the demon, who caught it purely by reflex.

“Aziraphale. I’m NOT going to wear a cable-knit jumper with a deformed reindeer on it”, Crowley spluttered indignantly.

“Yes you are, and you're going to be happy about it” Aziraphale countered, eyes shining with a mixture of Christmassy glee and absolute fondness. He clearly hoped Crowley would enjoy this as much as he did.

How could the demon resist such a look? 

The doorbell rang just as Crowley extirpated himself from the confines of the too-narrow neck of the woolly monstrosity. Both he and Aziraphale froze, half-expecting to be smitten on the spot, but they relaxed slightly as they reached the same conclusion: with their shared love for dramatic entrances and utter disdain for human customs, neither Heaven nor Hell would have bothered to ring the doorbell.

Azirapahle moved to open the door and was greeted by a vaguely melodic but very enthusiastic choir of young people, clearly trying their best to butcher every single one carol of their repertoire. The angel, a fake smile pastered on his face, turned to Crowley, who was now furisouly scratching his neck and arms where the raw wool was touching his — very delicate, thanks a lot — skin. 

“Crowley, please, make them stop” the angel pleaded, a desperate look in his eyes “It’s the fifth time this week, I cannot possibly bear another caroling session…!”

“Oh no, no, no, angel”, Crowley answered mischievously, seizing the opportunity to get his sweet revenge re: the Christmas jumper debacle. “I _love_ Christmas carols, and WE are going to enjoy the whole session and be very happy about it”

“You know, my dear, I really hate you sometimes”

“No you don’t”

“... No I don’t”


	11. 11 - London - 1984

The Bentley was already way past the speed limit in Central London but Crowley put his foot on the accelerator, “Another one bites the dust” belting from the speakers as he drove through the traffic (it was worth noticing this was, in fact, the actual song that was playing; released only a few years earlier, it was still a massive hit for all radio stations around the world).

He hadn’t seen the angel in weeks now and was beginning to be slightly worried (not that he cared to admit it), so when Aziraphale had phoned him earlier, he’d jumped into his car faster than if he’d been pursued by Hell hounds themselves. The phone call had been rather confusing due to interference on the line, and Crowley wasn’t really sure what it was actually about, having deciphered only a few words: “Camden”, “—lectric ballroom”, “tonight” and was sounded a lot like “Bronski Beat”, but he must have misheard that last one.

The gigantic posters “Pits and Perverts” placarded on every available surface when he arrived at the venue did nothing to end his confusion, though. The place was already busy with people running around with boxes of merchandising, amps, rolls of tickets and a lot of duct tape.

“Disco ball incoming, make way!” somebody shouted behind him in a hurried voice. Crowley jumped out of the way, and promptly choked when he identified Aziraphale behind the giant glittering sphere. The angel was sporting a cropped t-shirt printed with the same design he’d seen on the posters outside, along with white leather trousers that left nothing to the imagination. His hair was even fluffier than usual — thanks to a generous amount of hairpsray —, and someone had evidently attempted to drown him in glitter, given that he was sparkling even more than the disco ball he was carrying toward the scene.

“...” said Crowley, gaping like a fish out of the water.

“Crowley! How wonderful of you to come. What do you think of the venue?”

“What”, Crowlet managed to emit.

“Oh yes, silly me, I forgot to keep you updated! This is the first concert organized by the wonderful people of LGSM (wave) and the miners from south Wales (another wave)”

“Why”, croaked an even more perplexed Crowley, who was beginning to wonder if he had had too much to drink the night before and forgotten to sober up.

“To support the miner strikes against Mrs Thatcher abhorrent policies”

“How…?”, Crowley gestured, still a loss for words but trying to convey the general feeling of deep perplexment by gesturing wildly at Aziraphale, the unconventional-looking crowd and the whole room in general.

“Oh, it happened a few weeks ago. I met this charming bookshop owner, Gethin (wave), at an auction sale for poetry first editions, and he told me all about LGSM, the miners from Dulais and Swansea, and this wonderful community. They were in sore need of hands to help them set this concert up so I couldn’t refuse to participate, of course”.

“Of course”, said Crowley feebly.

“Come now, my dear. Let’s get you a proper outfit, the party’s about to start and you cannot _possibly_ dance to disco music all in black”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the event's 35th anniversary today!  
https://workingclasshistory.com/2019/06/10/e23-25-lesbians-gays-support-the-miners/


	12. Soho - Before the Non-Apocalypse

It was a cosy winter evening behind the closed doors of the bookshop; as the rain fell down the street outside, the smell of old books and even older dust mixed nicely with the fire crackling in the chimney Aziraphale had just miracled in the little room at the back.

The room where, incidentally, he and Crowley were busy getting quite definitely drunk, a dangerously full glass of red wine sloshing in the demon’s loose hand while the angel nursed the remnants of a sweet Madeira liquor.

They were sitting — or, more exactly, slouching — in comfortable silence, when Crowley spoke out loud, making Aziraphale jump and spill a bit of liquor on his vest.

“Ar— Azph—, a-angel”, the demon slurred, frowning. “Do you sssometimes regret thhings you’ve done?”

“O— of course”, the angel answered, a rather perpexled look in his slightly glassy eyes. “No later than the other day, a customer took me by surprise and I had no choice but to sell him a first edition of Jane Austen’s letters—”

“No, not things like thisss”, Crowley interrupted him, looking frustrated “More like… y’know, miracles. Electric scooters. This sort of thingss.”

“ _ Electric scooters _ …?”

“One of my biggest regrets”, Crowley shuddered. “Bloody things get abandoned everywhere, in the streets, cycle racks, on the sidewalk… Almos’ tripped on one the other day, you can imagine the humiliation”. Aziraphale couldn’t help but snort at that, and Crowley glared at his drink as if it was personally responsible for the demon’s aborted demise, then downed it in one gulp. “So. Your turn, angel.”

“Well I, uh… regret too many things to count, actually. Starting with not salvaging enough bottles of this excellent wine”. Aziraphale held his almost empty glass and focused on his next sentence.

“Actually, what about the things you do n—not regret?” The angel finished his drink and looked up at Crowley.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“You know. Things that you’d do again if given the opportunity. Our Arrangement, for example”.

Crowley’s eyes were bare and wide-opened, and he seemed suddenly very sober.

“I definitely do not regret meeting you, Angel”, he said with a soft voice. “Hangin' out withh you makess life a whole lot more interesting, if you assk my opinion”

Aziraphale’s face was quite flushed and he’d blame it on the wine later, but for now he was quite content gazing at companion for a little bit longer than necessary.

They had to do something about it someday, he decided, but now was the time to fill their glasses up again.


	13. Egypt - 41 BC

Surprisingly enough, it didn’t take much convincing from Aziraphale to get Gabriel to endorse his little trip to Alexandria. The angel was officially mandated there for political reasons (Heaven wanted to keep a close eye on the minefield that was the late Egyptian empire and its tie to the Roman republic), but internally, Aziraphale couldn’t wait to get there for two very different motives: the first one was that he’d longed for a few centuries to visit the splendid local library, renowned all over the known world, and the second was that he’d heard Crowley might be there too. He tried not to think too much about the fact that the latter had piqued his interest even more so than the first, and God herself knew how much he loved books.

Alexandria was a busy city and Aziraphale soon decided that the best option was for him to dress as a womanly figure draped from head to toe in a light cotton fabric, which had the double advantage to hide his golden hair, much too noticeable otherwise, and protect his pale skin from the cruel mediterranean sunrays. The royal palace was even busier than the nearby streets and Aziraphale managed to make his way inside without much difficulties, hoping a certain demon would not be too difficult to find in this metaphorical haystack. He shouldn’t have worried, though.

Crowley was hidden in plain sight in a group of dancers and musicians performing next to a refreshing fountain at the heart of the palace. The demon was presently holding a small tambourine, dancing lasciviously to the sound of a traditional flute; unlike the other dancers who wore elaborated black wigs, his long auburn hair fell freely on his tanned shoulders and he wore only a silky skirt wrapped around his thin hips. His eyes were barely hidden by a sheer gauze fixed in his hair by golden pins, and Aziraphale’s breath caught in his chest. The demon looked absolutely… straight at him, he realized a bit too late. Before anyone could register what was going on, Crowley threw his tambourine at his disconcerted flutist colleague without a glance and took Aziraphale by the arm, shoving him none too gently into a deserted hallway.

“Are you trying to get me discorporated?” he hissed at the angel, still holding Aziraphale’s arm firmly. “I’ve been there for months, gaining the favors of the Queen, and I’m not about to have my cover blown by a clueless angel asking questions!” 

“I’m not about to betray you!” Aziraphale hissed back, offended. “I’m only here to check if the rumours about Marc Anthony and Cleopatra are true, and— wait, did you say _gaining the favours of the Queen_…?”

“Gaining them indeed”, Crowley answered with a smirk. “I won’t disclose my ssecrets, but I have a way to know thingss, and I promise you’ll have some very interesting information about the progression of the Roman navy really soon”

“What? _How?_” the angel sputtered, wondering how indeed his nemesis could have access to such sensitive information.

“Go visit the library, Angel”, Crowley whispered as scaly marks began to appear around his face, “I’m sure you'll have a splendid time there and we’ll both have very interesting things to discuss in a few daysss.”

The angel still had many questions to ask, but Crowley had already transformed into his preferred form, slithering quickly onto the ground until he disappeared in the luxurious room at the end of the marble corridor. 

When the angel, having disposed of the royal guards with a miracle of two, managed to peer into the room, he saw Cleopatra herself resting on her bed, fanned by two graceful servants. In her arms, she cradled three little vipers, and Aziraphale could have sworn one of them blinked slowly at him.


	14. The countryside - 2019

It was the hottest summer in UK’s recorded history and Aziraphale took another swig at the iced tea bottle he’d prepared before they left for this impromptu picnic on the banks of a charming little river, leaving London like half its inhabitants did before they literally melted on the sidewalks.The ride in the Bentley had been quite stifling despite the open windows, leather seats sticking uncomfortably to their skin, but they’d found that perfect shadowy spot as if by miracle. Aziraphale had promptly unfolded a tartan plaid on the grass and got his ancient picnic basket ready while Crowley uncorked a blessedly fresh bottle of rosé; after a while, the angel had also removed his battered cream jacket and bowtie, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows while a rather flustered Crowley looked away (the demon had long ago given up trying to look cool as well as his leather jacket, but he still felt a bit sweaty in his black slim jeans and black t-shirt).

They chatted idly as they enjoyed their bucolic picnic, first sitting then laying in the cool grass, the river singing softly nearby. Aziraphale closed his eyes contentedly (“Just a few minutes, dear”) but, when he reopened them a while after, he realised he’d napped for almost an hour. 

Also, Crowley was gone. 

The angel sat up in a second, looking frantically around him. Surely this couldn’t be— Heaven and Hell hadn’t bothered them since— Crowley was right  _ here _ , Aziraphale would have heard if somebody—

“Angel, come ‘ere!” Crowley shouted from the middle of the lazy river, red hair plastered on his face as he emerged from below the water. He looked very pleased with himself. 

Aziraphale sighed with relief, stood up and shuffled to the river, wincing a bit as he stepped on a sharp-ish pebble with his bare feet. Crowley looked up at him with a tempting smile. “The water’s deliciouss, come and join me?”

Azirphale looked a bit awkward and sighed. “I— I can’t, I’m afraid”

“Why the Heavens not?”

“Well… It never occured to me to— I never learned— I can’t swim, Crowley”, he finished lamely, looking quite embarrassed.

“Oh”, Crowley said, internally chastising himself. He shouldn’t have presumed—

Then a stroke of genius hit him and he swam a bit closer to the river bank.

“I’ll teach you, then”, he said simply, holding out an inviting hand.

Aziraphale gaped a bit, seemed to weigh his options, then squared his shoulders and put his feet in the water. Bugger it.  _ Better late than never, old chap _ , he told himself as he miracled away his wet clothes and transformed his underwear into a bathing suit. Judging by Crowley’s arched eyebrow, said bathing suit had probably been out of fashion for at least a few decades but Aziraphale didn’t care, trying not to slip on the mossy rocks as he entered the water. 

This  _ was _ rather nice, he thought to himself, enjoying the fresh caress of the water around him and paddling experimentally. 

He was about to reach Crowley’s still extended hand when he stepped on something that was definitely  _ not _ a rock, shrieked, flailed comically and completely lost his momentum, falling head first in the deeper past of the river. In his panic, his immaculate wings came out rather unexpectedly and when Crowley fished him out of the water, the angel looked like a very disgruntled (and sopping wet) swan. The whole thing was so pathetic that Crowley couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh while Aziraphale flapped his wings and rearranged them between his shoulder blades. He was still laughing when the angel was finished, and Aziraphale soon joined him once he’d regained his equilibrium.

They spent the following half-hour trying to keep the angel afloat, which involved a great deal of splashing and flailing even though Crowley tried to support him without getting accidentally kicked in the face. In the end, Aziraphale seemed to get the gist of it and managed to swim by himself for a few minutes, though never drifting too far from the demon.

“Thank you, my dear”, he smiled at Crowley, eyes shining and droplets of water caught in his rather disheveled hair. “You were right, I _did_ have a wonderful time”, he added and, on an impulse, he closed his arm around the demon’s shoulders and kissed him right on the tip of his nose.

Crowley felt alarmingly warm all over and wondered briefly if demons could spontaneously combust, then unceremoniously dunked both of them under the water before he made the entire river evaporate.


	15. London - 1953

Crowley had been involved in the telecommunication industry since its infancy and prided himself on “helping” the development of several devices and technologies, with a slight preference for the infernally complicated (and mostly inefficient) semaphore system.

Television, though, was on a whole other level of potential nuisance. When he’d first heard of the latest developments with the cathode ray tube and the first successful transmission of moving images between America and Europe, he’d immediately envisioned the global-scale impact that television would have: politics, economics,  _ advertising _ … people would be subjugated and even Hell’s highest-ranking demons had to begrudgingly admit that this had the potential to be amazingly beneficial to their side.

When Crowley knocked at the bookshop’s door a few years later with a television-stuffed Bentley parked a few feet away, it was not to tempt Aziraphale with the latest adverts for various kitchen appliances, though. The whole country — Heavens, the whole universe — was waiting with baited breath for the Queen’s coronation, and Crowley was certain the angel wouldn’t miss the first-ever globally broadcasted event for the world (especially when said event involved the royal family, for which the angel had had a not-so-subtle soft spot for decades).

He wasn’t so certain anymore when the angel failed to answer his door after ten minutes of vigorous knocking, and Crowley finally resolved to miracle the door open and haul the massive television set inside by himself (this was not, by any means, an easy feat but he managed to do so with only a few carefully selected curse words and a single dent on his left snakeskin shoe). Still waiting for Aziraphale, he then busied himself with setting up the whole thing, fiddling with the electric cables and the transmitting antenna until he managed to get a signal on the oval-ish screen.  _ There you go _ , he thought with satisfaction,  _ just in time for the beginning of the coronation. What a shame Aziraphale’s not here to see tha— _

Crowley froze in front of the black-and-white screen and did a double take.

Right there, in the middle of Westminster  _ bloody _ Abbey, was, without a doubt, Aziraphale, splendidly dressed for the occasion and looking rather pleased with himself.

Crowley gaped and plopped on the couch, frowning. Trust the angel to gatecrash the queen’s coronation, he scoffed. Well, since the TV’s on, might as well enjoy the show, he decided, decidedly  _ not _ pouting. One could never predict was the angel was capable of, and at least he’d have something to look at if the ceremony went on for too long.


	16. London (China) - 2020 (1156)

The fireworks were going off splendidly and Aziraphale actually cheered out loud at a particularly magnificent shell that set the sky alight as if it was a bright spring afternoon.

Despite the chilly December weather, he’d managed to convince Crowley to go out and see the New year’s Eve festivities with him, on the sole condition they stayed away from the crowd. Huddled together on a (_miraculously_) deserted rooftop, with a warm quilt around theur shoulders and a pleasantly bubbly champagne bottle at the ready, Crowley had to admit the night was not the worst he’d ever had.

Another shell went off, bright blue sparks falling from the skies.

“Crowley”, Aziraphale began before taking a sip from his champagne glass, “do you remember—”

“Yes” the demon answered, an almost-smile quirking up his lips.

The year had been 1156 (Western-time), and the both of them had spent a few weeks in China. Aziraphale didn’t actually remember how he was able to escape Heaven’s notice, but the main point was that Crowley had been able to discreetly join him there and they’d had a splendid time, really. 

“Those fireworks back then were an absolute _wonder_”, Aziraphale said dreamily.

“Even more so than the woodblock-printed scrolls I unearthed in that Buddhist temple?” Crowley teased him, knowing the angel’s soft spot for ancient scriptures.

“So it was your doing?” Aziraphale exclaimed, spilling a little bit of his champagne. “I always thought it was a miraculous coincidence to find this scribe monk waiting for us”

“Yes, well, I thought it might be of some interest to you, s’all”, Crowley muttered. He fiddled with his own glass, trying not to smile as he remembered how happy Aziraphale had been when they’d looked at one of the first-ever printed books in history.

“Oh, Crowley, you really are such a—”

“No I’m not”, he answered automatically, but without much conviction. After 6000 years of various acts of kindness for his favourite angel, he had to admit he’d gone a bit soft around the edges.

The fireworks erupted in a truly impressive fashion, and the crowd applauded wildly as the show ended with the _grande finale_.

“Happy New Year, my dear”, Aziraphale said, clinking his champagne glass against Crowley’s.

“Happy new year, angel”


	17. Interlude

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	18. West End - early 1986

Crowley let out what was probably his hundredth sigh of the evening and slouched a bit further into his seat. His involvement in the creation of musicals had earned him a commendation a century or so ago, but he hadn’t anticipated the fact that he’d have to  _ actually _ attend one one day. Willingly. Well, more or less.

The sole reason he was still trapped in a rather uncomfortable corduroy folding seat and not driving his Bentley at 90mph through Westminster was sitting next to him, eating candy and looking absolutely fascinated by whatever was currently happening on the stage (Crowley stopped trying to follow the plot when the main character had erupted into his second song not fifteen minutes after the curtain went up).

Aziraphale had insisted they went out in the West end together for a change, and Crowley hadn’t had the heart to say no (the angel was positively  _ beaming _ at the thought of seeing a live musical; he’d spent most of the 18th century and what Crowley remembered of the 19th attending every classical concert, theatrical representation and pantomime he could, and the current musical revival delighted him to no end).

Crowley had gnashed his teeth throughout the whole first act and had been the first to flee in the general direction of the foyer bar during the interval, to have a drink or ten before the bloody thing resumed. Now they were seated again and he was more desperate to get out as ever, only a bit tipsier. Crowley was seriously pondering over turning into his snake form to take a nap (nobody would notice in the dark, right?), when Aziraphale smiled at him and took his hand without a word. 

Crowley froze in his seat and squeezed the angel’s hand tentatively before lacing their fingers. How long was the second part of the show supposed to last again? The program informed him it was 1,5 hour.  _ Too bloody short _ , the demon thought to himself.

They were still holding hands when the lights came back on after two encores.

Aziraphale was busy clapping (even though his right hand still held Crowley’s left), then he stretched a bit, sighed contentedly and looked at Crowley.

“Well, what a wonderful evening that was, I can't’ wait for us to do that again! It’s your turn to choose, dear, which show would you pref—”

“Queen. Wembley. July. That’s non negociable”

“Excellent choice. You know how much I enjoy bebop”

Crowley hit him with the program still folded in his hand.


	19. London - 1926

Crowley didn’t know what to do with himself now that he’d lost Aziraphale’s familiar companionship, following their disastrous holy-water-themed argument more than 6 decades ago. He’d tried napping, which hadn’t been so bad until the angel had almost stepped on him in the Galapagos islands (what were the chances, really) and he’d gone back to London, only to be re-awakened around 1915 by what his brethren Downstairs recalled fondly as “the Great War”. Crowley had seen such horrors back then he’d sincerely thought the Apocalypse had arrived early; he’d almost given up and flown to Alpha Centauri alone, but he’d heard soldiers talk about a military chaplain who was apparently performing  _ miracles _ on the field, and he’d reconsidered his plans.

Now the war was over and Crowley had personally ensured (from afar) the angel didn’t get hurt, but he still didn’t know how to reach out and was growing even more restless than usual. He’d tried everything to occupy his mind: opium (which made him rather sleepy, and he’d had his fill of naps), tobacco (left a weird taste in his mouth and lungs), alcohol (not fun getting drunk alone, though), when an idea struck him.  _ A car _ . They were rather fancy now, he mused, and with the latest developments in the motor industry, he would be able to clear his head at a speed much greater than 5mph.  _ This is a brilliant plan, _ he thought as he went to the nearest car dealer in town.

Aziraphale didn’t fare much better, even though he tried to hide it. Their 1862 argument in St-James’s park had left him in rather gloomy mood, and he’d busied himself with nautical trips and garden parties and gentlemen’s clubs to avoid missing Crowley too much. This wasn’t excessively successful, but at least he’d tried.

Right now, he was rather enjoying a night out in a jazz club, though; this new musical genre, coming straight from America, was what one could definitely call “trendy”, and Aziraphale’s chest felt warm from watching all these young girls and lads having a blast, after the truly terrible events they’d been through not ten years before. People were beginning to call this era "the Roaring Twenties" and, judging by the mad rhythm of the song currently performed in the club, the band on the stage was valiantly trying to live up to this concept.

As he left the bar a few hours later, congratulating the talented young trumpetist of the band that had been playing non-stop all evening, a black car brushed past them on the curb, tyres screeching. The night was dark and the sidewalk was narrow at the stage door, which explained why the driver had not seen them. That, and the fact that he was driving like a lunatic without his lights on.

“You… you terrible automobilist!”, Aziraphale shouted at the sleek black car, a bit at loss for words from the shock of his near-discorporation experience. “One inch further and I was—” Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence, mouth still open as his gaze met a yellow eye in the right outside rear-view mirror of the Bentley.

Oh.

Roaring Twenties indeed.


	20. South Downs - 2020 (part 1)

“Angel…?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Could you please come outside and tell me what exactly is going on here?”

Crowley had just come back from London and parked the Blentley at the back of the (antique, charming, and  _ miraculously _ off the market) cottage they’d bought not two weeks before. There still were a lot of errands to make regarding the refurbishing of the place, and, trying to keep a low profile after their respective trips to each other’s HQ, they’d resolved to take it easy with unnecessary miracles.

That’s why Crowley was especially taken aback when he saw what stood in place of the still-unkempt piece of land they’d acquired behind the house.

“Oh, you’ve noticed”, Aziraphale said in a contrite tone. “I was, uh… experimenting with landscaping and I... mighthavebeencarriedaway”, the angel added as Crowley’s eyebrow rose next to his hairline.

“Carried away” was indeed an understatement, as the piece of land that was supposed to be their garden now hosted what could be best described as a serious contender for “tropical forest of the year”. Gigantic trees dwarfed the crooked cottage, vines swayed in the breeze coming from the sea, and what looked suspiciously like an anteater slowly stuck his tongue at Crowley from behind a shiny leaf.

“I just wanted to improve things a bit while you were gone, really. The garden was looking quite poorly and I wanted to surprise you, but it seems I... I misjudged what a garden actually looks like”, Aziraphale said, waving his hand around to chase a particularly ferocious mosquito.

“Well”, Crowley said, not wanting to upset the angel more than he already was, “I ssuppose we could… compost that a bit, for starters". Crowley looked around them and frowned at a flock of vibrant green parakeets flying off to the village's main square. "And maybe chase down all the animals that escaped before the environment services sue us for illegal invasive species possession, or ssomething like that”.

If Heaven and Hell noticed the — frankly  _ very _ noticeable — amount of miracles needed to get the garden under control, neither actually did something about it. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at the skies for a while, wary of any imminent smiting, then spent the rest of the day politely visiting their new neighbours to make themselves known (and discreetly remove all traces of any non-local species off the village’s streets, to the great perplexity of several inhabitants renowned for their orchids collections).

The following year, Crowley won the prize for best apples in the county. It might or might not have to do with the fact that their thriving orchard was literally located on a few tons of tropical humus, but it wasn’t technically cheating, was it?


	21. South Downs - 2020 (part 2)

Crowley hissed and shook his hand wildly, trying to muffle a very undignified yelp as he tried (and failed) to get the scorching baking tin out of the oven. Said oven was now steadily producing a rather alarming amount of black smoke, and the delicious smell of cooked apples and caramel had long been replaced by a foul stench reminding him of Hell’s craziest “let’s burn people alive for funsies” parties.

“Crowley, dear, I think something’s burn—” Aziraphale said from the corridor then stopped mid-sentence, taking in the slightly surreal scene that was taking place in their kitchen. 

The walls and ceiling were already blackened with smoke, the oven looked like a doorway to Hell itself, and there was a strange hissing noise on his left. Aziraphale wondered briefly if this could be the kettle, then identified Crowley, covered in soot like a chimney sweeper and looking sternly at the blisters on his right hand, as if holding it personally responsible for that complete and utter culinary disaster. 

Trust human skin to go through Hellfire unmarred, only to peel away because of a baking tin a few degrees too hot.

The angel miracled the smoke, the blisters and the burning oven away and looked expectantly at his companion. When the demon had announced he was going to make a _tarte tatin_ with their own apples, much to Aziraphale's surprised delight, he  certainly didn’t expect things to go that way.

“Right”, Crowley said, considering the utter chaos that used to be their (once brand-new) kitchen. “You know what, angel? Let’s order sushi. My treat”.

“Actually, I don’t think they deliver food in this area, dear.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally forgot”, Crowley sighed and, with a snapping of his — blessedly blister-free — demonic fingers, redirected a very confused delivery driver to their cottage, transforming his Margherita pizzas into a large sushi selection (the olive oil was quite surprised to discover its new identity as a rather expensive bottle of sake). As proud as Crowley was of his prize-winning apples, Japanese rice wine was a lot easier to get drunk with than craft cider, and at least they’d soon be able to forget his lame attempt at baking pastries. 


	22. Massachussetts - 1773

“Thou have summoned me, O witch, and I am here to serve you as thy heart desires”

Crowley cringed inwardly as he delivered his speech, trying to sound demonic and not bored to death.  Usually, only the lowest-ranking demons were assigned this kind of summoning chores, but Beelzebub had decided he needed to be humbled for a few years. So there he was, in the middle of nowhere, hoping he sounded convincing enough to one of the few witches that had survived the New-England centuries-long witch hunt.

Turned out he _ was _ convincing enough, apparently. The witch-in-training, who had dutifully composed her brew and arranged several occult artifacts around her brasero, gasped and jumped in alarm, her battered grimoire — a family heirloom from her English witches ancestors — clattering on the floor.

Despite her thorough attempts at practicing witchcraft, she wasn’t very good at it and she didn’t expect anything or anyone to answer her invocation, least of all an actual demonic entity.

“Begone, demon!” a booming voice suddenly shouted at Crowley while a blinding light brightened the dusty room. The demon and the girl both turned their head at the same time, only to be greeted by the truly petrifying sight of a celestial entity in its full form, Holy Fire and a few hundred eyes glowing ferociously at them. 

The young witch covered her mouth with her hand then promptly passed out. She  _ definitely  _ hadn’t meant to summon a demon  _ and _ an angel at the same time.

As for Crowley, he was about to flee back to Hell headquarters without further ado — he hadn’t signed for a one-on-one Doomsday prequel, thank you very much —, when a very familiar voice made him reconsider.

“Crowley?” the angelic entity no longer boomed.

“Aziraphale?!”

“I’m so sorry, old chap, I hadn’t recognized you earlier and I really was about to smite you” Aziraphale sounded a bit contrite. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Well, I…”, Crowley stuttered, still blinded by the true form of the angel. “Could you turn off the light a bit, please? It’s really difficult to look at you like this”

“Oh, right, sorry”, Aziraphale apologized as he turned back into a more human (and much less terrifying) corporation.

“Nevermind my presence here, what are you doing in this sorry excuse for a village?” Crowley asked, a bit puzzled.

“Oh, you will _not_ believe what I just witnessed in Boston, my dear. Truly horrifying events, if I might say so”

“What’s happened? A war?” Crowley frowned. He hadn’t heard of any recent bloodshed, and Hell was very up-to-date with this kind of thing.

“Oh, no. Even worse. There was a new taxation or something like that, and those _barbarians_ threw perfectly good tea into the sea! Several tons of it!” Aziraphale looked truly upset.

Crowley was torn between the irrepressible need to laugh at that and the desire to comfort the angel, but the witch, who was laying down on the floor during this whole time, groaned softly and tried to sit up right at this moment. Looking alarmingly at each other, Crowley and Aziraphale carried her clumsily to a rather shabby straw bed, where she fell asleep in the blink of an eye.

“_The nice and accurate prophecies of Agnes Nutter, witch_” Aziraphale read out loud as he picked the witch’s spellbook on the floor. “Hm, never heard of that”, he added, dusting it a bit before putting it on the wooden table. 

Crowley glanced at it and shook his head. “A whole lot of superstitious bollocks, that. Come now angel, stop trying to refurbish this shack and let’s depart before any of our dear colleagues comes over to see what’s going on”.

“You’re right, of course”, Aziraphale said, as they exited the small house. “Nothing worth fighting for here”.


	23. Hyde Park - 2020

The night was still young and warm, the August temperatures finally lowered to a nice level thanks to a cool breeze rustling the leaves above their heads. They’d just enjoyed a rather luxurious picnic and, after Aziraphale had shaken and neatly folded the tartan plaid he still carried around for this specific purpose, they’d laid side by side in the soft grass, looking at the darkening skies where the firsts stars made their appearance.

They took turns pointing at the constellations, trying to identify them all and reminiscing which ones they’d helped create, back in the day (or, as Aziraphale mentioned, before days even existed). I was all rather romantic, but each of them would have preferred immediate discorporation rather than admitting it.

Crowley gave in first after a while and turned his face just so, their noses now almost touching. They’d kissed before, of course, but Crowley still felt that mixture of hope and anticipation every time, making his pupil widen behind his dark lenses. He could tell Aziraphale was in the same state, as the angel was sporting a rather vivid blush on his plump cheeks.

They both moved to close the distance between them and— that’s when the ducks attacked.

Roused by a stray dog splashing around in the small lake nearby, dozens of ducks and geese angrily stamped their way through the grass, trying to find a quieter spot to spend the night. The sight of this small army of belligerent waterfowl coming straight at them killed the mood quite effectively, and Aziraphale and Crowley scrambled to their feet as quick as they could, trying (and, sadly, failing) to salvage what they could of their ankles and of the remnants of their impromptu dinner on the grass.

“Remind me again why Noah _ had to _ keep a couple of those in the Ark?” Crowley said, wincing as he rubbed his sore calf.

“Something to do with preserving biodiversity, I think”, Aziraphale sighed. “If only this particular biodiversity could preserve us back, that’d be even better”, he added, before diving down to tackle a hissing goose trying to eat his — quite expensive — shoelaces.

“Angel”, Crowley said in an alarmed tone. “I think we really have to go now. The squirrels are coming too, and they look hungry.” 


	24. Bethlehem - 25 December (1 AD)

Aziraphale shuddered and shuffled closer to Crowley, in a subconscious attempt to warm up a bit. His demonic counterpart was always hot as Hell, no pun intended, of course. An angel — a principality — was not supposed to harbour this kind of base thoughts, even less so the night humanity’s saviour was supposed to be born.

Said angel shuddered some more and rubbed his hands together, the snow now falling evenly from the dark skies. Him and Crowley were now intently looking at a rather ordinary-looking couple, the woman heavily pregnant, knocking unsuccessfully at the village’s doors, each of them shut to their faces. 

“It’s really cold out there”, he said miserably. “I know we’re not supposed to intervene, but I’m sure a little miracle to free the smallest room of this inn over there would go unnoticed…?”

“Angel, don’t.”

“A little fire, perhaps? They seem to head for that old barn over there—”

“Aziraphale, no. You’ll only succeed in setting it aflame”

“Oh, there must be something we can do!” the angel cried, wringing his hands. “Wait, I think I have an idea”, he added a moment after, a maniacal glint in his eyes that made Crowley consider ditching his spying mission and flee back to Hell without prior notice.

“I am NOT transforming into a donkey, thhhank you very much”, he found himself hissing at Aziraphale, once the angel had briefly explained his plan.

“But this is the perfect opportunity!” Aziraphale whispered back, slowly walking towards the barn where Mary and Joseph had tried to find a shelter for the night. “I want to see it, you want to see it, nobody will notice us and we’ll be able to warm them up a bit.”

“Also, I think the poor lass’s already gone into labour, so we don’t have much time to find another solution” he added with imploring eyes as Crowley felt his resolve crumble. The angel was right, and anyway, he never had managed to deny him anything when he looked at Crowley like this. 

A few minutes and two miracles later, two silhouettes tried to enter the building as cattle-y as possible (Aziraphale had suggested mooing to perfect the deception, but Crowley had adamantly refused to hee haw). 

They shouldn’t had worried about discretion, though. Mary was so in pain she didn’t notice anything and Joseph had other things to focus about right then; an entire flock of pink flamingos could have danced the French Cancan behind them without them even batting an eye.

Even when the shepherds arrived a few hours later, nobody noticed the gentle-looking, curly-haired sturdy ox and the gangly dark grey donkey laying next to the manger, breathing softly on the newborn baby. Had they looked closer, they might have remarked the ox glowed a bit more than cattle was supposed to, and that the donkey had weirdly-shaped splinted hooves and golden eyes...


End file.
